Canto XXVIII

I drop you at your class and race the sun
across the hilly grass of Brockwell Park;
the Indian Summer day is almost done.

A brilliant white Alsatian growls and barks,
its pallor beams beneath a gnarled oak tree
as the green expanse that frames it drains to murk.

The curfew doesn’t apply on days like these:
the gates gape open, football games play on
and young couples ignore the autumn leaves.

Who knows which nights signal the end of aeons—
the click of fate, the biblical cock’s crow—
the coming night descends so it can lay on

the deeper dark through which the Effra flows.

Advertisements

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 14, 2012 @ 00:35:15

    I like the way the first stanza sets the scene…

    “and race the sun across the hilly grass of Brockwell Park; the Indian Summer day is almost done.”

    Simple words in themselves but full of feeling.

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,504 other followers

%d bloggers like this: